


all beasts bow to the sun

by tsukishimmy



Series: slithered here from eden [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Childhood Friends, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Friends to Enemies, Slow Burn, and no editing either, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27264835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukishimmy/pseuds/tsukishimmy
Summary: On the brink of collapse, Dalmasca strikes a deal with the individuals behind their foreign occupation - the Garleans.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Original Character(s), Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Series: slithered here from eden [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2005129
Comments: 33
Kudos: 71





	1. prologue: the roses bloom earlier this year

**Author's Note:**

> steeples fingers. this is so incredibly self-indulgent. i'm hoping to continue it by a chapter basis but i still havent figured out how many chapters i want, we shall see. i'll also change and add tags as we go
> 
> if you like this please leave a comment or a kudos! 
> 
> join the bookclub :) https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic

The soft clang of porcelain meeting porcelain fills the awkward silence. The air is thick with discomfort between the two global powers, and Parizad finds herself staring out the window in search of something… Anything to hold onto. In the drawing-room of her own home - her own palace - she finds herself lost. The gardens beneath them bring no solace as she confronts the thing she knew would arise one day. A sacrifice is to be made, and she must choose a lamb to be slaughtered.

“There is an easy way to settle this.”

Varis’s voice brings her back to reality, even if her fingers have dug into the safety of fiction. She turns to meet his gaze; the hue of her red veil creates a monotone version of the Emperor. 

“What do you propose?” She quirks her brow, preparing to hear his offer - one she will not -  _ no, cannot -  _ refuse. 

“Who is heir to your throne?”

She swallows the hesitation in her throat.

“My youngest, Ifritah.” 

The Empress can see how he mocks the name with his smile. It rips her heart out and places it bare upon the table. 

“Very well. Ifritah will be the one we shall choose for the marriage, what is her current age?” 

“I believe she shares the same birth year as your son.”

Varis nods; he hasn’t taken a sip of his tea. A part of her wants to ask why; does he think she poisoned it? An easy way to get rid of the man who has his armies in her kingdom. No, that would be a politically lousy move. As desperate as she was, they both knew she would never do it for the sake of her children.

With swift abruptness, Varis stands from his seat. “This coming spring we shall introduce them, and begin the process. Once they are of age, they will marry, and Ifritah will live with Garlemald.”

Her heart shatters with every word that parts from him. She remains steadfast with an unreadable face, knowing that later she would cry to her heart’s content. Her heir is to be kept prisoner in the cold world of Garlemald, with no one to keep her safe. She would rule from there using an envoy and only step foot into Dalmasca as a ceremonial show. She was not only giving her precious desert rose away but her kingdom as well. 

“I look forward to hearing your word for whatever date you decided for their first meeting,” she takes a sip from her cup. 

The Emperor withdraws in silence, his soldiers parting with him. The Empress returns her attention to the gardens below _. The white roses are blooming earlier this year _ , she thinks to herself. Soon the roses would fully unravel themselves, their beauty free for all to see. The roses would soon be cut at the stem and forced to live in a home far, far away from its family.

She spends the next hour in tearful silence as she mourns the future loss of her beautiful rose.


	2. rooted to the cold earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She sobs with the care an artisan would put into their masterpiece."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more content! i have an idea of where this is going but idk how im gunna get there. thanks for coming along on this ride!

The sun creeps its way into the salon, the massive windows doing all but naught to keep the ray of heat from the prince's back. 

He does his best to not fidget in his seat, but there are many things he'd preferably do than this. Such as reading a book or bothering his retainers with inane questions he already knew the answer to. 

Instead, he is forced to wait for this princess, this _girl_ he was supposed to _marry_. His father simply cannot be serious, for why should a six-year-old be concerned with marriage?

Unconsciously, he itches at the bruises that bloom across his forearms. He was told that he would be free to do what he wishes afterward if he behaved during the doctor's visit. This did not fall under his idea of _fun._

His father told him he must attend this first meeting. When Zenos asked if he would be coming, he merely brushed him off with an excuse that even the prince does not remember. The boy had no interest in disobeying his father's demands, even if a part of him desires to act out in rage for having to do this. No, this minuscule amount of suffering does not compare to the punishment he would have received by disobeying.

The door to the salon creaks open, and he pulls down his sleeve as he attempts to pull back the memory of one of his many lessons in court behavior. 

"Good evening Prince Zenos." The woman who speaks shares the same dark complexion as the child by her. Her hair is a stark black that resembles the night, adorned with jewels that wink at him in the sunlight. Her crimson gaze wanders to the servant who stands politely behind him, and she gives them a smile. 

"Is this your retainer? Or a family member perhaps?" Her words are soft. She seems to know the answer to her own question but does not want to offend. 

"No, this is my handmaiden. Father is busy." 

If she is taken aback by the abruptness of his words, she does not show it. And he does not care to look. He brings his attention to the girl by her side, practically a replica of the older woman. _Siblings_ , he decides. And does not inquire to confirm his suspicions. 

The girl is nudged forward by her sister, and she approaches Zenos with a look one would give a newly discovered animal.

Silence fills the room to the brim until it spills over.

"Your eyes are very large." That is the first thing she says to him.

Before he can reply, she is yanked back by her sister, who gasps and scolds her in a different language. There is no look of disdain or discomfort. No, all he does is smile. 

—————————————

Ifritah pulls the fur tighter around her body in an attempt to fight back against the cold. The frigid air nips at her nose, even when she buries it deep into the collar of her jacket. There was no snow on the ground, nor has the lake frozen over. The leaves were still falling peacefully from the branches, colouring the sky and earth with an array of oranges and reds. It was beautiful if she was not freezing to death. 

_One more week, and I can return to the warmth._

Her summers, since the contract was created, have been spent in Garlemald. A place far from the warm dunes of Dalmasca, where the seasons varied too much for her preference. She was told it was vital for her to become familiar and acclimatized, for when the time came, she would be sent to live there. 

She hates it. 

She hates everything about Garlemald. 

Perhaps it is because she knows she will soon be a prisoner to these people, but perhaps her hatred is justified. It is cold, dark, and dreary. The homes are built from cold metal. Their technology glows in the darkness of the night and provides no warmth. The people are strict, their joy all but sapped from their souls. They were more fascinated with the Empire's cultivation and growth than to pursue cultural interests, such as the arts. 

Though, she knew this had not always been the case.

During one of her adventures, she had stumbled upon an old study room. She told herself that when she is Empress, this room will be hers; therefore, it would not be immoral to search through the drawers. What she found was fascinating.

Scripts and plays. Unfinished stories that involve a bygone era. Pictures and paintings of a place labeled _Amaurot_ . Heroes and villains - and a recurring character by the name _Azem._

Oh, how she wished to be this mysterious character, free to travel the world and unlock all its curiosities. Her heart aches with longing.

The room was not as abandoned as she once presumed. During one of her solo acting debuts, she hears the door creak open. She runs and hides behind the nearest furniture with immediacy, hoping that her small stature would help to hide her. 

"I know you're in here." 

She doesn't reveal herself just yet. Instead, she waits for the person to approach. The man's armor creaks and clicks with each step forward. A shadow imposes the wall behind him with a figure that seems almost _voidsent_ in nature. Frightened, the child steps out from behind the chair. 

In her hands, she clutches onto various notebooks and papers. All of who she assumes belongs to the figure that hovers over her. 

A hand extends outwards, and with the timidness of a faun, she places the papers in his grasp. Satisfied with what he gained, the Emperor walks towards the desk. There, he returns the documents to their place and slams the drawer shut. The force is loud enough to send a shock to Ifrit's spine, and without another word from Solus, she runs from the office.

She sprints through the dark, metallic hallways. What does she run towards? She doesn't know herself. All she knows is to run away, away from the cold dark place that was once somewhere she found solace in. If only she could run to Dalmasca, away from this cold and awful place. If only she could run away from her family, who gave her away to these dreadful men. 

But it seems no matter how far she runs, she is stuck here, in the world place to exist. Garlemald.

Tears stream steadily down her cheek now, and her speed slows to a walk. Which becomes a halt. She drops to the floor, her arms wrapping around herself to give the comfort she yearns for. 

She sobs with the care an artisan would put into their masterpiece. 

No one would save her from this terrible, cold, dark place, she realizes. Her tears and sorrows would fall on deaf ears. 

Her tender heart reluctantly accepts the truth that is presented to her: she is alone. Completely and utterly alone.


	3. blood and thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like to make short chapters... easier for me to stay focused and get out what i want... hope y'all dont mind :)

"What do you make of this?"

Between dark, manicured fingers, the princess holds the broken stem of a flower. Its appearance resembles a stick rather than something that belonged to a creature as beautiful as a rose. But the thorns that protrude from the green shaft tell them otherwise.

"It's a rose stem," Zenos says, his tone indicating that Ifritah's question was more insulting than curious. "What kind of question is that?"

The children sit behind the towering fauna of Solus' gardens, hidden away from the eyes of their retainers and teachers. If the adults could have their way, they would have dragged the two back to their training or their studies. They were not interested in such; well, Ifritah most certainly was not. She had a knack for convincing Zenos to abandon his princely duties.

"I did not ask what it  _ is _ ," she snaps back. Despite the frequent time they spent together, the two - on the surface - seemed beyond cordial. They would hiss and snap. Insult and tease another whenever they could. Any opportunity to belittle the other royal, they would jump on it like a hound. "I am asking  _ why _ there are thorns."

He looks to her with his usual bored expression. This facade was unreadable to the untrained eye. Ifritah had spent enough time with the prince to know when his patience was wearing thin. Little quirks, such as slowly blinking or a condescending smile, often gave away what was churning beneath.

Now, he smiles at her as if her skull was too thick for a brain.

Zenos rips it from her hand but hisses when the thorn pierces his skin. Crimson droplets form at the tips of his fingers; the blood trails down his hand and drops onto the porcelain floor. A shiver ran up both their spines as they waited patiently for Solus to reprimand them. The Emperor seems to have eyes everywhere in the palace. It was unnerving.

When no voice emerges from beyond the hedges, the prince and princess both release a breath of relief. Zenos instinctively sticks the wound in his mouth, and Ifritah makes a face of disgust.

" _ What?" _

"You lick your wounds like a dog."

The child smiles with the finger still in his mouth, making an excellent display to prompt another, more exaggerated reaction from the princess. She sticks out her tongue in a feign  _ gag _ .

He shrugs his shoulders, satisfied with his now clean finger. It was just blood, after all. What would she make of the hunts his father would go on? Or the executions they held in the prisons? Zenos frequented both, without Varis knowing, of course. Solus would invite him, you see.  _ It builds character _ , he said, as he leads Zenos with his short and lethargic gait. 

" _ It builds character _ ," he repeats in the same confident tone Solus used. Ifritah does not look convinced. So he takes her hand in his and pricks her finger on the thorn. Her reaction is more pronounced than his. She yelps and jumps back, hand to her chest, and eyes full of betrayal.

" **_ Beast—!! _ ** "

"Says the savage," he smiles at her growing irritation. He didn't honestly think her a savage, but he found her reaction to be more than amusing. 

In a moment, she shoves him backward with such force he is thrown from the bushes and onto the pathway. Where the princess managed to conjure such strength, he would never know. Or, well, he wouldn't get the chance to ponder on it as the princess was already atop of him. He raises his forearms, her nails digging into the fabric of his sleeves rather than his skin. She was yelling in Dalmascan, which gave both of them away. She would not get the best of him, however. With a shove, she falls onto her back, and he takes a seat on her chest, crushing her flailing form.

_ Now, she was screaming _ .

A singular hand grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and lifts him effortlessly off of Ifritah, whose face was now tear-stained from her cries. He is gently put down onto the floor, allowing him to look at who interrupted their fight. Regula stares at him with discontent, the furrow of his brow indicating worry. He was most likely disturbed by what Varis would have to say to all of this, should he find out.

"Zenos, you acting more like a beast than a man," the voice is familiar, and soon he sees his great grandfather enter the pathway. He does not scold him. In fact, he is smiling. He looks to Ifritah, who no longer wipes away her tears, but is held back by Regula's leg. She barely reaches the back of his knee, whereas Zenos easily reaches the man's hip. 

She's  _ furious _ .

"Calm down, dearest." The tone of Solus' voice commands her attention, as it does most individuals. Ifritah's anger has dissipated at Solus' voice. He desires that power for himself, one day. To be able to strike the ember of fear in someone's heart so that it grows into a fire to consume them. "Such a display is ill-fitting for a princess."

He smiles at her as if sharing a secret. 

"Wait to parade such violence when you are Queen."


	4. something wicked this way comes and as i set to face it, i'm unsure should i embrace it, should i run?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What motivates me? Hatred? Is it love?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for suicide talk and suicide baiting

The months between the fall and spring were dreadfully long, each day with him dragging himself to one appointment after another. The only enjoyable thing was when he could hide away in the library or hear Solus scold Varis the way he was scolded many times before. Such things brought a smile to his ever neutral face. Still, even such things fell into their usual category of boring. 

However, when the flowers began to fully bloom, petals unraveling themselves, he found himself enjoying the days more and more. Soon Ifritah would return to Garlemald to stay for the summer. He would have her to pester and annoy. She would annoy him in return, somehow managing to elicit more than one emotion from the prince. The world warns him to not become too attached to a woman bound to him by contract. His own father demands he stays vigilant around her. But when has he truly listened to what Varis had to say? Since his sixteenth birthday, he had shoved aside all qualms his father had, freeing himself to do what he wished.

Of course, this did nurture the hatred Varis already felt for his son. But as Solus once told him, the hate will make him stronger. 

And so he continues to disobey.

He disobeys Varis when he meets her at the airship landing on the day of her arrival. At that time, he had a meeting with one of his retainers to focus on a new form of swordsmanship. Instead of beating yet another one of these endless trainers, he stands in the open field to watch the airship descend onto the platform. 

Zenos can't help but smile when he sees her.

So unaccustomed to the neutral weather of Garlemald, she looks utterly ridiculous in her furs. Apparently, she underestimated the cold air; the second she takes a step off the ship, she removes the coat and hands it to her handmaiden.

He approaches but halts mid-stride. Something is wrong. She does not return his smile; she does not run up to him as she has done countless times before. All she does is stand, eyes fixated on the industrial horizon. 

It takes her a moment, but she makes her way towards him. She politely nods in his direction before following the soldiers towards her room.

That's it. 

She says nothing more. She doesn't even turn to look at him.

His chest aches, and he hates it. 

His expression has all but dissipated from his face, his neutral facade returns like a stone mask. He has better things to do than to welcome a glorified prisoner of Garlemald. But even that justification does not ease the tension that grows in his chest. 

* * *

Ifritah sits in her rooms, the window overlooking the barren garden. They had not been tended to in many moons, she realizes. Had Solus abandoned his luxurious getaway? The only piece of Dalmasca she could hold onto here, now a barren wasteland.

Her body still aches from the scarification from weeks prior. Her mother sat her down to carve the designs of Dalmasca into her flesh.  _ You must remember us _ , she demanded as she cut through her daughter's skin.  _ If you do not remember us, then we might as well have not existed in the first place _ . 

Through the tears, she tried to reassure her mother that nothing would become of Dalmasca, that the marriage would work out. That there was nothing to fear. 

But her mother, with tearful eyes, merely shook her head in silence. That was enough to put the rest of her arguments to rest. To see her mother, who endured the greatest of tragedies,  _ cry _ . Well… it shattered whatever hope she held in her chest. 

Her mother knew of things she would not utter to her daughter. Something terrible was on the horizon. She did not need to see the dark circles beneath her siblings' eyes to realize it. The Garleans increased their military presence was an indication enough of the storm that brews within the shadows. Parizad was so adamant on the scarification, on the design. She wanted Ifritah to  _ remember _ , to know where she came from. And before she entered the airship, her mother hugged her as if she was saying goodbye forever.

This was all just a political ploy, wasn't it? Zenos did not truly care for her, but he made sure to convince her he did. Ten summers had passed since they first met, and the next would mark the day of their marriage. She wants to tear at her hair and scream. She wants to cry for being so easily fooled. She wants it to end. She wishes for her mother's comforting embrace.

But her demands fall into the silence along with her grief. 

She was stuck here, and no amount of love would save Dalmasca from its inevitable destruction. She should be happy to be the one to make it out alive.

Yet, she cannot find any joy. And Solus' barren gardens only further feed her grief. 

* * *

The days that pass blur together. Routines were strict, and minutes dragged to the end of each hour. It felt that time was purposefully going slower than needed, a silent punishment for whichever crime he had committed in a previous life. Or perhaps even this one. 

Most likely this one.

Zenos' tutors prattle on about the delicacy of the art of war. That each decision is a stroke in a masterpiece that would be shared for all the world to bear witness. If one were to make a mistake, then all the world would know of the artist's lack of skill. Thus, their pieces would be rendered useless, and their reputation ruined. He knows all these things, he had read them in Solus' novels. Frankly, to him, it was common sense.

However, it seems it was not common knowledge to his tutors. Is it now why they prattle on about it day and night?

"Are you done?" He taps the quill with impatience against the table. 

The teacher takes a step back at the abruptness of the prince. 

_ Who will win, your pride or your logic? _ He can't help but smile at his own internal dialogue.  _ Let us see how tactful the tactician is. _

The tutor clears his throat, swallowing whatever pride he had left. "I am teaching you a valuable lesson, My Lord."

"You have taught me the same basic, common knowledge for almost a week now," he says, his eyes fixed on the slow decay of his tutor's patient form. "In my eyes, you have over saturated a lesson that needn't be taught."

The teen stands from the desk, and he places the quill delicately by the blank paper. He hadn't taken a single note. He didn't need to.

"Allow me to demonstrate my knowledge on the subject," Zenos begins. 

With a gesture of his hand, he summons the guards to seize the tutor, who makes little effort to fight back.  _ What a bore _ , Zenos thinks. He does not stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

"The tactful move is to obtain as much military and strategic knowledge while I am still in my youth." He folds his hands behind his back as he begins to circle the frazzled tutor. 

"Yet you teach me nothing that I don't already know myself. Therefore, you are not qualified. You are not useful to me or anyone within this House. So you will be dismissed."

He smiles as he utters the next string of words.

" _ Permanently." _

It takes only a wave to send the man off to his death. 

Zenos does not falter in his steps as the man is dragged off, pleading and crying for mercy. The teacher was once more proud and now reduced to  _ this _ ? Indeed, if he was such a magnificent tactician he claimed to be, he would find a way out of Garlemald's prisons.  _ Consider it a test of your skills _ . Oh, how he wishes he uttered those words to him before he left. But the man's existence leaves Zenos' mind as if carried by a breeze. The thrill of sending that man to his death was dismissed with ease.

There was a certain air of  _ fear _ that radiated off him as he wanders through the hall, towards the courtyard. Servants would not look him in the eyes; they would pray he did not regard them or acknowledge their existence when he walks past. Death lingers in their soul not as fear but a way to escape someone more  _ terrifying _ than the skull-faced reaper. 

Was this how Solus felt? His presence commanding such intense devotion and attention. 

Thoughts of grandeur slip from his mind when the cool breeze of the summer air welcomes him. The sun rests easily in the center of the clear blue sky, the heat never as imposing as it was in Dalmasca, though it still warms the skin. His mentors are shocked to see him at their session early but offer no questions to the prince. Instead, they begin their usual ritual to prepare the training grounds.

Off in the corner, he sees a distinctive and very colorful young woman lounging in the sun. At the same time, a servant fans her with four oversized and bright Chocobo feathers. By the foot of her chair, another woman in plain attire holds a novel open, apparently reciting the story to the princess. She does not seem to notice Zenos, her dull gaze focusing on the soldiers who chat by the weapon display. 

"My Lord," a retainer holds out a sword to him; sleek in design and easy to maneuver, but nothing to make a display of. Varis said he was still too young to have his own manufactured, personally designed sword. He still treated the prince as if he were a boy and not on the brink of manhood.

Zenos takes the weapon from the other man, feeling the weight of it. Once satisfied, he spins it around once, holding the blade to his retainer's chest. "Go and summon the princess, I would like to spar with her."

The master's eyes widen, brow knitting with confusion. Though he was many years Zenos' elder, he understood the boy's potential. He also understood how quickly Zenos would dispose of him once he found that he outlived his usefulness. He commands one of his men to summon the princess, who still lounges idly. Perhaps it was a desperate attempt of self-preservation, as he fears more of what Zenos would do to him  _ now _ , should he disobey.

Ifritah sauntered over to the training ground, making sure to kick up the sand as she walked. She wears the traditional clothes of the Dalmascan people, a pair of loosely fitted pants and a tunic that grazes above her knees. Though spartan in silhouette, the  _ salwar kameez _ is embroidered with crystals and gems that sparkle in the sunlight, adding to the ostentatious jewelry on her neck and wrists. It is evident that significant time and care were put into the curling designs of flora and fauna covering her. The only simple thing there is about her is her hair, which rests easily on her shoulders.

"What is it, Zenos?"

The teen takes the sword handed to him by his mentor and balances it without giving too much thought to his reply to his  _ betrothed _ . "Have your studies led you to the art of battle, little princess?"

The taunt is laced beneath his words, not many would pick up on the condescending tone he was using, but she did. She always did. Perhaps it was from countless hours as children they would spend together. Maybe it was because she was trained in the ways of court. Either way, Ifritah was no stranger to the challenge, as subtle as it was presented. She makes her way to the row of weapons, organized with utmost care, before plucking a sword from it. She watches with interest as his face lights up - only slightly - before dimming once more as she returns the blade to its place.

"Of course I have, though I have no interest in displaying my hand to you or any of your mentors." Even after all this time, she still did not trust a single Garlean. This feeling was not just towards him and his kin, however. He heard how ill she spoke of her own family, how she felt like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Should he tell her what they had planned? The response they had planned in retaliation for the Barheim incident? 

Nonetheless, he raises his weapon and strikes at her. There are gasps from the bystanders, and he can hear a woman scream - a plate falling to the stone ground, shattering on contact. The arena falls deathly silent, and when the dust settles, he sees her pushing back against his blow. The sword she dismissed earlier is the one she wields, albeit she holds the base with two hands instead of one. Simply too large for her stature. 

"I see now why you refuse to fight. You look like a  _ child _ holding a wooden sword," he laughs as he speaks, taking a step forward to increase the pressure. She does not yield, even when she is forcefully pushed an ilm back. 

In a swift movement, she ducks beneath his blade and pulls it her own with her. He catches himself before falling forward and whirls around to face the princess, who stands behind him. Their swords meet with a clang, the audience gasps once more at the sight of the prince attacking his betrothed. He can hear the shuffle of armor run past him, most likely a guard sent to alert  _ someone _ to stop Zenos from potentially killing the bride-to-be. 

He sees a fire grow within those crimson eyes, so focused on him. The world washes away to darkness. The only truth that remains is to kill or be killed—the thrill of battle, the passion of the hunt. The taste for vengeance, for blood. He sees it in the way she attacks him, the steps she takes to avoid his own advances. The way that even when she is pushed back and cornered, she  _ persists _ . She strikes him as if killing him would give her the justice she needs to soothe the burning in her heart. That if she can get one slice across his cheek, to see blood weep from porcelain, everything she had endured until now would be worth it.

_ Just a taste _ . A taste of what it is like to have the power she was promised by birthright but denied due to circumstance. 

Her stance is strong, her movements well-trained. Zenos allows her to strike instead of dodge, lifting the blade so that sparks fly when they clash. Yet as the seconds pass, her swings become more violent, more targeted. He sees her abandon tactics, consumed by the lust of just  _ pure violence _ . 

Suddenly, she stops. Her chest rises and falls with each heavy breath she takes. It's obvious she does not train often, but she is trained nonetheless. Zenos stands unphased, sweat unbroken. He waits once more for her to strike, but she drops the sword. And with the sword, herself as well. She falls to her knees, and hands cover her face as she begins to sob.

_ So she knows,  _ he thinks.

Those who have gathered around them whisper to one another, unsure what had caused the princess to weep so fervently. Did he strike her? Deal a killing blow? What has happened to make her cry? They did not know; the official decree had yet to be announced. Only they did. A secret shared between him and her.

He sheathes the blade into the ground and takes a knee to face her. His presence pulls her back to reality, and she looks up at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Is it true?" Her tone is pleading, her eyes as well. What does she want him to say? That Noah van Gabranth and Livia sas Junius did not murder the Dalmascan people? That her mother and family still lived? Such words would be a lie, and he had no care for lying. 

He parts his lips to speak, to say  _ something _ but is prominently interrupted by a commanding voice.

"Zenos yae Galvus, return to the throne room."

He looks up to see Varis at the training grounds entrance, a handful of soldiers behind. He recognized them all; notable figures in the military hierarchy. Yet, a man in black robes stands out, despite being behind the rest of the soldiers. He looks quite pleased with himself, even if the majority of his face is covered by a red mask.

Zenos stands, abandoning the sword to make his way towards Varis. His father lifts a finger and points, and the prince brings his attention to the princess kneeling on the ground.

"Bring her too."

Ifritah takes a moment to stand but nonetheless does so. Varis and the others leave before Zenos and her depart towards the throne room. She dusts the sand from her pants, her posture and demeanor having completely shifted from just seconds before. She was extremely good at that, a skill he was sure her mother taught her, as well as the other women of court. The two walk in silence towards the throne room.

Words are on the tip of his tongue yet he struggles to speak. What would one say in such a situation? Perhaps he was not the master tactician he thought himself to be… No, that's nonsense. Just because he did not know how to speak to Ifritah did not mean he lacked strategy. He simply didn't know what to say. How does one talk to another when doom lingers on the corner and in the shadows? 

"You fight well," he says. Ifritah does not reply immediately, which causes the prince to bite the inside of his cheek. He curses internally for speaking, knowing that it would have been best to simply fall silent.

"Thank you." Her reply is curt. She makes no effort to continue the conversation despite the silence that grows thickly between them. A heartbeat passes before she speaks once more. "I asked my mother to teach me, several summers ago, when you began sword training."

He raises his brow at this. He did something that Ifritah wished to mimic? Had the sky fallen? She always looked towards Garleans and their beliefs with passionate disdain, calling them savages and ill-bred whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"I saw how you defeated that master from Ala Mhigo. How you continued to fight. The resilience. I wanted that for myself," she continues. Her fingers play with the bottom of her decorated tunic and she does not look him in the eye. "You spent so much time training, I wanted to have something to do with you again. I missed the time we spent together."

It feels like he's being stabbed, yet no weapon is present. His chest aches something  _ awful _ , and he can feel something rise in his throat. He doesn't quite know what this feeling is, but he  _ hates _ it. And he hates how much more intense it becomes when Ifritah looks up to him and smiles. He feels sick, mortally wounded, in fact. What  **was** this awful feeling? It seems his sudden nausea is prominent in his expression since Ifritah's smile drops and her brow furrows.

"Zenos - you look  _ terrible _ ."

Gods, why was his face so  _ hot _ ? His jaw sets, attempting to shove down this sudden and suffocating sensation. The words swirl in his head:  _ I missed the time we spent together _ . Stupid, stupid! What a stupid thing to say! If his own father would not spend time with him, why would some savage from Dalmasca care to spend time with him? Oh, he knew, he understood. She  **pitied** him, didn't she? She only saw him as some  _ stray hound _ , some wild beast.

It makes him sick.

Yet the conceptualization does nothing to alleviate the pain in his chest and stomach. It does nothing to quell the heat that lingers on his cheeks.

" _ Shut up _ ."

He picks up his pace, walking ahead of her. His mind still swims with her words, with her smile. How she looked  _ genuine  _ when she spoke. They  **did** have fun as children, didn't they? All the times spent in the gardens, or in Solus' room reciting the plays. The books they would give one another. The stories they shared. Although his childhood was akin to a monochromatic painting, there was a splash of colour hidden there. A splash of red and gold and white and…

His trail of thought comes to an abrupt end when he sees Varis. The feeling in his chest all but dissipates, though a sliver of it lingers within his veins. The heat from his cheeks are gone as well, but his mouth is awfully dry. He was thankful that the feeling left, but he could feel his chest spark once more when the princess entered the throne room from behind him.

Noah and Livia stand there, the robed man now gone and leaving the three Garleans to discuss. They all look to Ifritah, who stands solemnly by Zenos' side.

* * *

She can feel the impending doom beginning to crawl out of the shadows to grab onto her. Something terrible was going to happen; she felt it in the air. She sees it in Varis' neutral yet condescending expression. The two others, however, she could not see, as their helmets covered their faces. It did not help that Zenos had brushed her off just moments ago. She revealed a vulnerable part, her heart on her sleeve. All he did was throw it to the ground and stomp on it.

Ifritah swallowed thickly in an attempt to quell the anticipation that burns in her chest. All eyes are on her, and the silence between the five of them grows thicker by the moment.

"Ifritah, are you aware of your mother's attempts at an uprising?" The masked man is the first one to speak. 

"No… I am not. May I know your names? I am unfamiliar with the both of you."

Why, when they are helmeted, could she feel them smiling at her with such a condescending air? "Noah van Gabranth," the man says. "Livia sas Junius," says the woman. 

"I also recently acquired a new title, however," Livia places an armored hand on her chest and bows mockingly in Ifritah's direction. "You may also call me the Witch of Dalmasca."

The shock must have settled quickly into her features, as Varis just chuckles to himself before taking a seat on the throne. The two others remain standing, and Ifritah stares at them, eyes wide. "Witch? For what particular reason-?"

"Enough of these useless questions," Varis says. "Ifritah, you were privy to your mother's attempts at usurpment. It is plain to see, all evidence indicates such."

Her face relaxes as she takes a neutral expression. She knew of her mother's attempt at demilitarization, but she did not know the extent of it. Yes, since the invasion thirty years ago, there had been civil unrest. People squandered and created coalitions in an attempt to rebel against foreign rule. Empress Parizad would swiftly snuff the light of these rebels, but as time passed… Her mother began to understand. They were being snuffed out, suffocated beneath the heavy gauntlet of the Empire.

Parizad had always taught her to be wary of gambling, that the price one pays is often more than what they are willing to give. 

Her mother… Her sister… her  _ family _ . The neutral facade shatters when a single tear trails down her cheek, and she takes a sharp breath inwards. They were gone, weren't they? She would never hold them again, never hear their voices. She would never know of their days or their future. Her home was gone, most likely turned to ash and dust by the Garleans. The feeling of solitude grabs onto her with violent intent.

"Answer me!" Varis' thundering voice sends her to her knees, and she cannot help but begin to sob once more. She holds onto her chest, instinctively, as if to protect her heart from further damage. They were dead.  _ They were gone _ . She didn't even get to say a proper goodbye.

"I didn't know!" She sobs though everyone knows it's a lie. How pathetic did she look now? The last of her family, perhaps even her kind, crying for mercy before a murderer. This was not the woman her mother taught her to be, but her mother was no longer here. Parizad could not help her anymore. She would no longer hold her when she cried.

"Seize her and take her to the dungeons. Someone will interrogate her for any further information." Varis's voice seems so close yet so far away.

Armored hands grab onto her shoulders, pulling her off the floor. Was this how she was going to die? In a dungeon, from starvation or blood loss? A voice resonates within her:  _ are you going to let these men push you around? Are you going to allow them to continue to take everything until you have nothing left to give? What then? _

If she dies, then Dalmasca dies. Then the memory of her family dies, and it is as if they never even existed. 

Ifritah shoves one of the guards, forcing them to remove their arm from her. As they lurch back, she pulls a dagger hidden in the sleeve of her tunic and shoves it into the small opening between the helmet and chest plate. The blade slips into the man's throat, and with a violent hand, she rips it free from his jugular. Blood sputters like a fountain onto the princess and the floor. An unceremonious thud resonates through the throne room as the corpse falls. Shocked by the sudden display, the other man holding her is left open. She palms the blade to her non-dominant hand and raises it to attack-

But her arm is stuck in midair, and even when she tries to wrench it free, she cannot. Ifritah turns to see a familiar set of blue eyes, a set that is usually bored with the world around him. Yet this gaze, this gaze is interested.

"Zenos! Kill that woman right this instant!" 

The two stare at one another, seconds pass by like eons. He smiles at her, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"No, I don't think I will," Zenos replies, his grip still on her wrist. Varis stands from the throne, fury in his eyes as he approaches the two. He removes a weapon from the hilt of his belt, but Zenos is faster. He takes the bloodied dagger to his throat, and the Emperor abruptly stops.

" _ Zenos, _ " Varis' growls, his fury continuing to grow. He does not take a step forward, however. " **_Stop this act this instant!_ ** "

Zenos simply shakes his head, and when the blade knicks at his throat, Varis winces. "I want Ifritah to stay alive and within my custody. If you don't abide by these terms, I will simply slit my own throat. I am sure Titus would be  _ ecstatic _ to hear for my sudden death."

"Zenos, that  _ creature _ is a savage and a murderer. For  **what** reason would you keep that animal in the palace?!"

"I find her entertaining."

"Entertaining!?"

Using her wrist, Zenos draws blood from his throat, causing Varis to twitch. "No-! Don't you dare! Fine! Fine! I will not execute her…"

Zenos does not lower the blade, however. "She is not to be harmed while in my custody. Understood?"

Varis pauses before speaking, hoping Zenos would come to his senses. Yet when the prince does not waiver, he sighs in defeat. "Yes, yes. I agree to your terms," he says, mumbling something beneath his breath as he walks towards the throne. 

Zenos says nothing and does not release his grip from her wrist. He does, however, lower the blade, so it is no longer against his throat. The prince begins to tug her away from the throne room, Ifritah allowing herself to be pulled along, still digesting what  **exactly** had happened. A man laid dead on the floor, and now… Now she was being taken away by Zenos instead of executed?

"Father." The prince stops in his tracks and turns to face Varis, who reluctantly raises his head. "I would not sit on the throne. It would be a terrible shame should Emperor Solus find out the eagerness of his grandson to inherit the throne."

"GET OUT!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i wrote a long chapter and i hope u all ENJOY bc i didnt beta or anything... need to get these two off my mind, theyre giving me brainrot


	5. i don't want to be you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shape of your head is still impressed upon my palms when I had held you close and bade you farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading a book on medea, a retelling and a part of the novel inspired the line "The shape of your head is still impressed upon my palms when I had held you close and bade you farewell." which drove me to write like a madman.

_ Were you ever going to tell me? _

The words linger on the tip of her tongue. Her mouth is dry, and grief is stuck in her throat, her breaths erratic and forced. She reminds herself to keep breathing, to stay alert, to stay awake. The pain from her newly formed scars crawls against her skin. Her eyes burn as she forces tears back, away from the watchful eyes of the servants. Zenos tugs her along, away from the throne room. She wants to scream at him, claw and bite and scratch - she wants to get out, but she can't. She fears that if he lets go, she would simply collapse. 

She cannot see her face but desperately wishes to look into those bored, blue eyes. Even though they were stoic, abrupt, and often unnerving, they were welcoming. They were somewhere safe, somewhere she knew.

"Zenos," she croaks out as she musters enough strength to pull back against his grip. He's too sturdy and keeps walking unphased. "Zenos  _ please _ —"

Those same tears she thought she banished come once more, and they flow freely to stain her cheeks. Her heart aches, her ribs too small for the massive weight that grows beneath her chest. Ifritah chokes back a sob and cannot hold back the second, she tries to call him again. When the hairline fracture draws itself through her stoic mask, the rest of the porcelain shatters. 

Ifrit can sense the servants' eyes on her. Their gaze trails her movement as they watch the crown prince drag the newly orphaned princess to the Twelve knows where. Did they pity her? Did they see her as the victim she perceived herself to be? Or just another foolish girl, in over her head, a royal  ** brat ** who would finally receive the brutal hammer of justice. A savage from a foreign land who was better off as scales on a  _ purse _ than as an Empress.

A hand raises to wipe the tears from her eyes. She feels more than tears on her cheeks; the blood has caked and cracks beneath the princess's contorted features—crimson flakes from her visage, a paste forms on her fingers. The horror settles quickly; the man dead on the floor snaps back into her mind's eye, and suddenly, filled by sudden strength, she pries herself free from Zenos. Her hands wipe at her face, scarlet staining her fingers until her golden rings shine with the sheen of blood. Mouth hung open, she stares blankly at her hands, her tears and words suddenly dry. A flame was set beneath her; her body shakes with fear, yet her mind is ultimately and utterly blank.

"I-I…" 

"It is merely blood." She hears his voice, but it's so terribly far. Her heart is bound to jump from her chest or be vomited through her throat. She cannot tell, for she feels so far away from herself, but Zenos grabs hold of her once more and continues to lead her.

How much time has passed, Ifritah wonders? Her mind is still a void, unable to piece together the stages and progression of events that brought her here. That has her wet in the blood of another. That stains her hands with death and tears. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? She attempts to claw back at reality, but the waves of darkness overtake her and pull her under. She wants to hear his voice, the clicking of their shoes against metal floors, but she senses nothing. All she feels is the creep of dread and the pounding of blood in her ears.

He sits her in front of the fire, the embers still glowing a dull red from the recent burn. She can still feel the heat from it, too, tendrils of hot air caressing her tear-stained cheeks to soothe her aching heart. Perhaps it was merely her imagination, but there was something about flames and the burning heat that brings her comfort. She could be set aflame and only feel the warmth of a mother's hug, her head held in the arms of someone who wishes to protect her. 

_ Mother. The shape of your head is still impressed upon my palms when I had held you close and bade you farewell. Are the prints of my hands still imprinted in your golden hair? Or is there nothing left of your corpse?  _

_ Nothing but ash.  _

_ Nothing but my memory of you. _

She grasps at the reality the embers lit for her but struggles to maintain her grip. Two hands rest on either side of her head and pull her attention towards them - towards Zenos. She wants to speak, to cry, to do something - but the emptiness… it consumes. A hunger that cannot be sated. He mentioned this to her once, a fleeting moment where he displayed only the barest hint of vulnerability.  _ Is this how you feel every day, my oldest friend? _ The question is muddy as it sinks into the darkness that grows in her mind.

He wipes away the blood that smears across her face, taking extra care when he runs the soaked rag beneath her eyes. Mismatched and beautiful, the imperfect pools of mischief and light were all but empty now. 

She stares through him, barely acknowledging his existence. She doesn't even wince when he scrubs at her scales nor when his grip is too firm. Tighter and tighter, he holds her in a desperate search for a reaction - for anything. He wants to laugh. He feels the giggle rise in his chest. How infuriating this was, how she was a blank canvas with no emotion nor reaction to share. He wants to laugh because he sees it now: the reflection of himself that he struggled to see.

A savage covered in blood.

Zenos does not dwell. He finds no need to shift through the rising tide. He sees how she is drowning, he cannot help but feel obligated to grab her and pull her back to the surface. This, too, muddles his mind with foreign thoughts. Why did he care for her so? Why did he smile when he sees her and frowns when she cries? Death was not something he feared nor a dessert he craves, yet he held that bloodied dagger to his throat, ready to welcome the end for… her.

And the way she smiled and confessed to him, her heart on her sleeve. It still makes his chest ache.

Uncertainty boils beneath the surface and lights a fire in his chest. He grabs each side of her face, his hands slot perfectly between her horns, and pulls her close. Mere inches away, he searches her eyes, her expression for  _ anything _ . But she is empty; the fire grows at a rapid pace until he feels his skin burning.

" _ Wake up."  _ His voice, barely above a whisper, holds more passion than before.  _ "Wake up _ ." 

Through all his searching, there is nothing there. The reflection of his own empty eyes look back at him, yet these ones hold a twinge of fear - of grief, of suffering. He abandons his search and ignores the bloating emotion that begins to rise from his chest to his throat. He couldn't lose her, he wouldn't. For when she is gone, what would that leave him? The monotonous studies? The days that drag by at an agonizing pace? If she were gone, then who would keep him company? Who would entertain him, make him laugh, remind him… Of  _ something _ . 

Despite all the novels, journals, and books he had gone through and read, he cannot find the word for the  ** thing ** that grows with such passion in his chest. It brings sweat to his brow and a shudder to his grip. A pain in his throat that blooms whenever he thinks of her gone.

No. He would not give her up. She was his; that had been established long ago before either of them could speak - could realize. Varis could not take her from him. He wouldn't allow it. 

His mind whirs with plots and schemes of how to outsmart his persistent father. Varis would do whatever he can to wipe the last drop of Dalmasca's royal bloodline from the face of this star. Perhaps Solus, as Emperor, could-

"Zenos."

The prince brings his attention upwards, away from Ifritah's hands. He had almost wiped them clean, taking note of the new scales that began to form as scar tissue. The design is an intricate recreation of Azeyma's icon - one of the eikons they worship in Dalmasca, as he was told. The black scales run up her wrists into the obscurity of her sleeve. He heard her complaints about it before; the aches and pains of healing tissue. He wonders how far they go.

"Yes?"

Mismatched eyes gaze down at her hands, blood still settled beneath her sharp nails. She could have easily cut the guard's throat with her claws alone. She returns her gaze to him. "I killed that man… I… I-"

"Yes, you did." He drops the rag, thumbing a speck of crimson he forgot to remove from her cheek. He would leave the blood to dry beneath her fingernails, for there was no need to shame oneself for the animalistic desire that brews beneath the surface. "And?"

"I do not… I feel no guilt for having done it," her voice is low, despite them being the only two in the room. She curls her fingers into her palms, the pressure of her claws pricks her skin, and crimson drizzles down the length of her wrist. "I wish I could do it again."

He says nothing, and she continues the grip on her own palms, tightening until blood flows freely. Her nails were wedged beneath the scales, and from the hint of pain in her eyes, he was sure she was tearing them off.

"No one cared for me. My mother plotted this without considering the consequences - without thinking once, that even should she win, I would still be punished." Her lips draw back, revealing a set of sharp fangs. The despair had all but dissipated, replaced by a rage that grew like an untamed fire. "She sacrificed me, as she always did. As she always planned to do. But Varis…  _ Garlemald _ ."

Zenos reads her next move with ease but does not move out of the way when she grasps both sides of his head. He can sense the open wound against his flesh,  _ feel _ the blood trail down the length of his cheek and neck. Her grip is vice-like; that same anger that drove her to murder is the one that gives her the strength to not let the prince go. He can hear his father's scolding even now;  _ you bring a savage beast to your room and expect her to not rip your heart from your chest? Foolish boy _ .

His father knew such little about him, for the sensation of death that breathes down his neck brings such an intense rush of ecstasy he could practically laugh with glee. 

" _ Yes, Garlemald _ . We brought you here, away from your family. You were always a lamb to be slaughtered, it was obvious to us - to me - but not to  _ you _ ." He smiles madly as Ifritah's grip tightens, as he feels her blood stain his golden locks and force strands to stick to wet skin. 

"I am no lamb to be slaughtered! I am no trophy to be kept in your halls!"

"Ah, but it seems the others don't share the same  _ delusion _ as you." 

Her fangs are bare now, both irises a black slit that was practically hidden by the hues of her eyes. Her skin was  **_ hot _ ** \- it singes his skin, leaving an awful trail of roasted flesh in the air. She does not notice, no- her murderous intent was set on  ** him ** and  ** him only ** . For to her, he was merely an extension of Varis, of Solus - of the entirety of Garlemald. A kingdom that only wishes to feast on the supple flesh of the sacrificial lamb.

"Utter one more word and I will kill you as I did that guard. This I swear - this I  **_ promise _ ** ."

"And what do you plan to do next, once you have killed the only individual with a care to delay your slaughter?" He pries her hands from his face; though she uses all her strength, it is naught but a dull pressure against his skin. "Open the killing floor? Refurbish the palace as a slaughterhouse? Just  _ you _ ? You can hardly best me in battle, let alone take on an army yourself."

Reality is a harsh slap across the face, but she does not falter. Instead, she looks to him, as her anger dissipates with the cold water he had tossed on the flame of her passionate heart. He pities her, he does. To feel so much that you were willing to take such strategically dangerous actions to fulfill a desire for justice. Had it been him, he would not have batted an eyelash. The faces of his family would be gone the next day.

The beauty of the artist is that they can bring to reality whatever they desire. She was a canvas, crowded and muddled with too many strokes by too many people. He could easily reconstruct her into the image of the woman she  _ could _ be, the woman she wanted to be. 

"I will help you," he says. Her brow furrows, knitting together as she tries to decipher if there is a hidden meaning behind his words. "I will help you seek your revenge, because I find it an enjoyable pastime."  _ And because you are my friend _ , but he does not utter these words.

"This… What do you derive from this deal? This cannot be as simple and blessed as you helping me achieve my desires. What are  _ you _ intending to procure from this arrangement?" 

_ Ah, ever the tactician.  _ When she wanted to be, that is. She also held the desire to try and kill Varis as if it would have done anything. 

"Simple. I will get the thing I have always wanted."

"And what is that?"

He shrugs. "I have yet to decide. A friend, a pet, a beast. Entertainment, even."

Silence fills the air between them; her mind works away at the details, picking apart each scenario she could come up with. She wants revenge. She  **_ craves _ ** it. She needs it to sate the growing hunger of this beast that seems to just want to  ** consume ** . To feel blood between her teeth and the feeling of  ** peace ** when she finally can close her eyes. 

She would get her revenge on the world, the world that has mistreated her. She would get her due justice, even if she were to become the judge, jury, and executioner herself.

"Very well. Where do we begin?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zenos and ifrit both pity each other which i find Hilarious. 
> 
> stay tuned for more teenagers plotting murder!


	6. all that was me is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for abuse and self harm

_12 years ago._

He is told to fight. 

If he does not raise his weapon, he is beaten. If he does not attend class, he is beaten. If he shows interest in anything but violence, he is beaten. 

He is covered in bruises and scars from his retainers' hands. 

Other things in this world interest him, but they seem so far away, obscured by a veil of fog. They take that curiosity, too; they rip it from his heart and leave a trail of blood. The mist grows, and the world becomes grey.

He would cry if he could, but they had taken his tears as well.

He has no more tears left to shed, no more sadness to share. No curiosity to fill his childlike mind with the desire to live, explore, and learn. He becomes empty, with no desire to live yet no will to die.

Do all children feel this way? Yes, they must, he thinks. All children become empty eventually. All children forget their past. 

_10 years ago._

There is something terrifying about screaming. It lights a fire in your veins and welcomes panic into your body as the fear settles deep, deep within you. Your heart races, your mind goes blank, and your body seems so alive yet so dead. 

The pain wakes him up from that state as the blade slices through the soft flesh of his arm. He clutches onto the wound, but his palm is not big enough to encompass it, and blood seeps out.

They yell something, but he cannot hear, but he feels the boot against his back that shoves him into the ground. The dirt tastes familiar. He doesn't hate it. No, the coolness of the earth is a welcoming embrace against the heat of his open scars.

"Off the ground."

Zenos does not move, head pressed against the dirt in a prayer. He does not utter words of help nor beg for a savior. No, he knows this is what happens to those who fail, those who cannot succeed. Why would he beg for mercy when he was the one to blame for his incompetence? 

He pulls himself up, taking a shaky stance, and lifts his sword with both hands. He's still too young to use only one, like the rest of them. Something they enjoyed reminding him: you're too weak. He was. Another thing he blames himself for. 

He deserves it; the beatings, the cuts, the scars, and bruises. The ache in his ribs as medics rush to ensure the Prince would not die. But they did not rush to defend him. No, keep him alive. He was useful—a suitable punishment for a prince.

Zenos once tried to say something to his father, to Varis. He showed him the bruises on his arm, and the man merely shrugged, a smile curling against his lips. "You're going to let them treat you like that, Zenos? Learn to fight. I will not fight your battles for you."

Then silence.

At night when she couldn't sleep, she would join him in his room. Together they would lay beneath the covers, and she would clutch so tightly onto him, her body frigid from the sudden climate change. His bruises would protest the tight embrace, but he said nothing of it. He let her hold him tightly until they both fell asleep.

She sees his arms one day; she sees the bruises and the cuts. She does not cry. She does not yell at him for being weak. She does not reprimand him for his scars. Instead, she looks… confused. Her brow knits, and she bites the inside of her lips. She keeps turning his hand over as if the cuts were a trick of the light.

"Who would do such a thing?!" She jumps up and lets go of his hands. When he doesn't reply, she stomps her foot and places her closed fists on her hips. "I will find them and get them! Justice will be served! Just like Azem did in that play!"

He smiles.

_4 years ago._

His vision falls into a pool of crimson. The world is painted a bright, scarlet red, and he can feel a liquid pour down the side of his face where the other man's jugular burst. Fingers run through the patch of wetness on his cheek, and when he pulls away, the porcelain is stained red. There are whispers, and the rush of feet as the man before him bleeds out. His once angry eyes are now empty, the fire quelled to nothing but ash. 

The corpse is a reflection of what lingers beneath Zenos' soul: death. Emptiness. But that anger… that frustration. The primal urge to survive. 

"Halt," he says nonchalantly, as he wipes the blood on his trousers. Yes, keep it close—any memory of it, any moment to feel alive. The guards stand utterly still, stalled on the tips of their feet for a command from their Prince.

He wants more of it, more of that anger. More of that rage. He wants to feel. He wants the world to burst into colour the same way it did when that man lunged for him.

The man was dead but his family… His family could serve as a means of entertainment. 

"Tear him limb from limb and return each part to his family. Be sure to inform them who killed their father and husband." He drops the sword and turns to leave the courtyard. 

"Ah, yes. I also extend an invitation to them, to come kill me if they please."

_3 months ago_

He has an itch he could not scratch. A hunger that could not be sated. 

A dull thrum in his chest would be present when he awoke and when he slept. Many spoke of fulfillment, of souls and aether, but he cannot find either when he looked. 

Silence suffocates him, a constant pressure at his chest and throat. Many days in his youth, he spent searching for a resolution to this … could it be called pain? There was no suffering… but emptiness. 

No will to live, yet no passion to die. 

A ghost that lingers and exists merely because it has nothing else to do. A machine that runs with no purpose other than to run. This was the essence of his life, of him, until. And he did not fear death, for every waking moment had already prepared him for the nothingness that was bound to engulf all living creatures.

Perhaps as a child, it was beaten out of him. But he does not know. He does not remember most of his childhood. They are fleeting images in a mind that continually runs, and when the darkness does come to remind him of his past, he brushes it away.

He is unattached to that child and feels nothing for him.  
  
At the age of fourteen, something stirred in him; a challenge by a mentor who had no name yet was adamant on proving himself worthy against a child. Perhaps the ache in his soul was soothed every time he would strike Zenos down. That passion, that hatred this man felt… it sparked a fire in his bare chest. 

The challenge of defeating someone so desperate to live, so passionate in their beliefs. The idea that, perhaps, there was something to ease the constant dull throb.

That when scarred, bruised, and bloody, he could feel something: adrenaline, the thrill to fight, to survive. Yes, Zenos yae Galvus cared not of dying nor death, but the passion that others felt to live. He thrived off of it. It was the thing that had been missing his entire life—their will to live, to fight, and even to kill. To see people, reduce down to their basic instincts when death lives in their shadow. That is his muse.  
  
He found their passion, to say the least, entertaining. If not a bit inspiring as well. Zenos soon realized that the best hunt did not include animals, not even beasts that would easily rip a man's throat like a waterskin. No, the best hunt was those who involved men and women.  
  
Their desire to live sparked new ideas in their otherwise unused minds. Their passion to see their families once more would make them take up arms, even when they knew nothing. Zenos saw the peak of humanity, and it stood at the cleft that overlooked life's escarpment. Beneath the surface of flesh and sinew, he saw the kindling for a fire that could be lit. All these people had to do was cast aside their doubts, their fears – these petty little things called emotions – and entirely give in to the thrill of being alive. 

For what was the point of living if it is not to die?  
  
The jurisdiction he has is alarming and borders on morally questionable. For whatever atrocious actions Zenos yae Galvus committed, he would never feel the brutal hammer of justice upon him. His father cared little for what he did, making it abundantly clear to the boy that he was merely another pawn in an endless game of strategy. Consumed by his own life, Zenos was ultimately alone. Though the solitude could suffocate him at times, he had grown to learn one vital lesson: he will never be reprimanded, not for a single thing he would do.  
  
It began when he was a boy, mirroring the things he saw Varis and Solus do. Send them away! He would say, waving his child-sized hand at the guards. They complied, dragging whoever the child gestured at to their demise. A sense of shock settled into him, and with any new toy, he tested it profusely until he grew bored, and it was no longer entertaining. 

How many people did he send away? How many children did he orphan just by a wave of his hand? Wives and husbands widowed by a child. When his heart should ache, he laughs instead. These were the individuals who hated him the most, he finds. And as a child who grew, who survived and was nourished by the hateful looks from his own father, it fuels him.  
  
These were the people who wanted him dead, who would take any opportunity to seek justice on the Prince that ruined their lives, severed their families. They wished for justice, and who was he to deny them? A small decree was sent out to those with families lost in service to the Galvus House – specifically those who died by Zenos' careless command. Come and seek your revenge, the letter said.

He would have his grand hunt.

_Present_   
_Ifritah_

Her lungs are full of despair; when she spits, she spits out grief, and it is a hue of blood. Ifrit wishes to pull the scars from her skin and rip the scales from her flesh, but they do not budge. Not even when she digs her nails beneath them and pulls. Tugging with fervent desire to escape this mortal flesh. To run from these emotions that suffocate her, that hold her so close.

She sobs as she rips the scale from her body, the burning sensation of pain overpowering the despair that has such a tight hold on her. 

She continues to split her skin, allowing the despair to seep out drop by drop.

_Present_   
_Solus zos Galvus_

Another kingdom falls to the Empire, a spark of rage to those who are left living. In fact, he can feel the despair linger through these halls, contained within a young woman who dared to spill Garlean blood on their lands before royalty. His lips curl into a smile.

"Is there something amusing you wish to share?" 

Half-lidded eyes look up, the smile still present. "Family matters, Lahabrea. No need to lose sleep over such things."

The Ascian grunts, not caring to take a seat next to Solus by the fire. Always busy, always moving. He seems more interested in immediate results, showing no care for a longer, more strategic game. It was a shame, indeed. Lahabrea was once celebrated as one of the greatest minds in Amaurot. Now he only cared for results. Perhaps that is the way of the scientist. 

"Were you listening when I spoke?"

He waves his hand nonchalantly. "Yes, yes. Your plan is in motion. Do you wish me to congratulate you on doing your duty?"

"The Garleans play an important role in this, Emet-Selch. You should be privy to the plan so that everything can fall in place," Lahabrea's anger rises with his voice, but Solus remains unbothered. "What is the point of this Empire if it is not to create another rejoining!?"

"It has multiple functions, my old friend. One of those functions falls under the jurisdiction of amusement."

Lahabrea opens his mouth to speak, but Solus raises his hand to silence him. Obediently, the other man does, though it seems it takes more than a bit of restraint for him to not bite on Solus' previous statement. "The boy is making his way to my chamber; it is best you depart."

"When will you end this little charade, Emet-Selch?" 

He raises a brow, a silent declaration for the Ascian to continue his confrontation. 

"Enough with games. You should see this Empire as a tool, not as a way to fill your insatiable appetite for something that cannot exist."

His smile drops as his jaw sets; beneath the facade of composure, he fights with the urge to hit Lahabrea with enough force to send the idiotic man back to the void. He withholds, of course, instead choosing to reply with a quip.

"Don't you have something to set on fire, Lahabrea? Shoo."

As the door to his chamber creaks open, he snaps his fingers and dismisses the Ascian in a cloud of purple smoke. He would have to deal with Lahabrea's tantrum later, as he doubts the man would be stupid enough to return when there is another present. 

"Zenos." He does not move from his chair and continues to watch the flames roll and lick at the charred wood. This soon would be transformed into something powered by ceruleum. Even then, he would prefer the flame's primitiveness; it is a warmth that technology cannot replace.

"I come to petition for your aid, Emperor."

A deep laugh rumbles in the old man's chest. "There is no need for formality, Zenos. I know you care little for it."

Silence is shared between the two Galvuses, leaving only the soft sound of footsteps that emanate from behind him. The sound grows louder as Zenos approaches. The Prince takes the empty seat across from the Emperor, the one Lahabrea was adamant about not taking.

"Very well. I require assistance with my father, I am sure you are fully aware of what has happened," his voice is dreadfully monotone when he speaks. Still, beneath, there is a hint of desire. Solus can hear it. "Afterall, you must have been the one to send troops to Dalmasca. Without your permission they would not have proceeded."

He says nothing in return, instead of watching the flames roll and burn. 

"And now Ifritah is regarded not only as useless, but as a traitor and a threat. Father wants to kill her."

"Why do you care so much about a savage, Zenos? You should be thrilled to know you no longer have to marry someone with scales."

The Prince's lips part to reply to the Emperor, but Solus interrupts before he can utter a word. "Tell me what you want, Zenos. You and I share a dislike for those who are vague in their demands. Speak freely, it pains me to see you hold yourself back so."

"Fine."

A leg that had been crossed stomps onto the ground, audibly shaking the chess pieces behind. "I wish to keep Ifritah because I find her useful, and I wish to be a deeper thorn in my father's side. Her audacity is entertaining, and I find that if she continues to stay here, her anger will prove amusing to me."

There is more; Solus knows it. Zenos would not keep someone around merely for amusement; there were many things he could care to spend his time on. In fact, he had barely seen the boy interested in anything that does not involve the thrill of death. He should have been ecstatic to see her executed, should have wanted to be the one who brings down the axe. But he is not. Instead, he wishes to hold onto the dying faun, to nurture it back to health. How childish.

"And you wish me to officiate your marriage, so that Varis cannot kill her?"

"No, he would still try I am sure. For you to sign a document means nothing, Solus. It is ultimately a sheet of paper that has a line of ink, it holds no significance."  
"Then why come to me?"

  
"Although mundane, that document will create barriers to make it more difficult for Varis to attempt to kill her. He would have to be subtle, though I doubt he possesses any sort of expertise in such an area. Which means he would need to out-source an individual, an assassin. But who would dare kill the wife of the Prince?"  
Solus nods, his mind walking along Zenos' as his plot unfolds. "With your reputation, I doubt anyone would wish to get in your way."

  
Zenos shares the smile that grows on Solus' face. Lahabrea is wrong, Solus thinks. There is something beautiful in watching something you had a hand in creating become so perfect.   
"Precisely. Which is why I require your assistance."

Solus' fingers tent, pads pressed against one another as he pretends to deliberate. He had no qualms with Zenos' plan. It was well thought out - though ultimately insignificant, as are all things in this ephemeral world. Furthermore, keeping that Dalmascan around would prove useful, a tool to use in creating a rejoining.  
He would present his ideas, and the potential of this girl, to Lahabrea and Elidibus. Solus sighs, his hands falling to his lap. He had pretended to be in thought long enough. However, a question lingers—a query produced from observation of Zenos' previous thoughts.

"You care not for formalities and see them as insignificant, yet continue to live within the box that is created for you. I cannot help but be curious as to why you continue to follow these rules you deem arbitrary."

Zenos does not hesitate when he replies. The answer is seemingly ready at the tip of his tongue. "Because I am forced to live in the reality other people have created. This kingdom is ultimately meaningless, but the masses have chosen to believe in it, so I must play their game."

"What you speak of wanders the line of treason," Solus says. "Your title and ascension may be put at risk with such words."

"Something such as a title can be taken away as easily as it is given," Zenos replies, his shoulders rise and fall with indifference. "It is not a heart nor weapon. It is not a physical thing. You can state I am no longer a prince nor a Galvus, and my blood would not bleed a different shade of red. Yet, if I convince enough individuals, I will continue to be their Prince. Everything is a matter of manipulation, of convincing others to play along."

The boy continues, and Solus tries his best to contain his smile. "People are simply content to live in their state of madness, never concerning themselves to look beyond the looking glass at what truly exists."

"And what, pray tell, truly exists?"

Silence blankets over them, the quietude growing until it creates a heaviness in the air.

"The domain of beasts. Those who are weak die and those who are strong live. We have muddied this concept with perfumes and lace, but the raw truth is that no one is beyond the primitive, animalistic state."

It was precisely what he wished to hear, and so he permitted himself to smile at the boy. He was proud of his creation; his plan would unfold, even if he was not around to ensure it does. Lahabrea would never be able to appreciate the intricacy of such machiavellian techniques, but no matter. When the world is restored, he will freely crow in his ear.

"Very well. Bring the papers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people asked why Ifritah's name is Ifritah/Ifrit. She's an old oc of mine, and based off the MENA djinn lore: Ifrits. Ifritah is the feminine version of the name, hence hers. 
> 
> I like to say her mother named her Ifritah as a namesake of the primal Ifrit, she was a rebellious lady.
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter leave a kudo or comment. Or start an elaborate pyramid scheme, whatever is easiest.


	7. memories bring no joy or peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't updated in a while... so here's a small update hope u enjoy
> 
> once again this isn't beta'd and barely edited so like. probs a lot of mistakes

When the calamity came about, she almost felt it was righteous. Ifritah did not weep for those who suffered, lost, or died in the great catastrophe. When Dalmasca fell, they did not rush to their aid. They did not shed a tear for them, so why should she? For others, it felt the world had been ending, but for her… It was a sense of peace—delayed justice.

Dragged from the rooms to a safe location, she shows no sign of despair. Instead, much like an audience, she watches the story unfold before her.

She sees Dalmasca in the chaos. She sees her family in the faces of servants left behind to potentially perish. She sees her mother in the face of a mother who sobs when she cannot find her child.

Her arms still ache from the cuts and bruises she inflicted upon herself. The burning feeling of a new wound was the only thing that kept her grounded, reminded her that she was alive. Reminded her that reality was continuing, time would pass, and her scars would heal over. But she did not wish to let go of the past, not just yet. She wanted to hold on tightly; she wanted to know every detail of every moment when Dalmasca was brought down. She wanted to be there. She wanted to be by her family's side, in her sister's arms, as they died.

But she was here. Protected against her will, forced to live. Just a decoration in the palace, a trophy from the great Empire of Dalmasca that was nothing more than a memory. And once her mind would entirely deteriorate, that memory would be gone. Dalmasca would be nothing more than a fairytale.

The Garleans would be pleased with that idea; a city that wanted to rebel now reduced to nonexistence, turning the great city into a folk legend. What a celebration they would have, she thinks, to know their power is so great they can manipulate reality itself. She was in the way of their goal, her memory of home the final relic to be destroyed. So they were content when the princess's aggression upon herself and others became too great for her to be left alone. Zenos could not be by her side to ensure she did not lash out like an animal, so they found a solution to their  _ problematic pet.  _

She traces the bruises that the needles left behind. At first, she despised it; she would lash out and fight, but one can only do so much against a group of ten soldiers. Though now, she enjoys the sight. It reminds her of when she first met Zenos, that day in the writing room when she commented on his eyes, and he laughed. He was covered in bruises, too, ones that he would scratch and pick at. She smiles when she sees purple bloom against her skin - a reminder of better times. A place to return to when things became too much.

Sometimes she wondered what Zenos thought of it - of the bruises, the needles, the treatment. But her attention was too fleeting these days. She can no longer focus too long on one thing, so she forgets to ask. He was so busy, so preoccupied with princely duties - she can no longer remember what that entails - that he was hardly around. When she does see him, she cannot remember the details. All she does is stare into the fire, wishing she could be one with it. 

She does not talk much or share a conversation with him, so he has stopped visiting as frequently. Though her memory fails her, she remembers asking him when Parizad would come and take her home. He told her that Dalmasca is gone and has been for a year now. She remembers sobbing and the sound of the door slamming shut.

Now, as the world crumbles around them, she feels his fingers run through her hair, her head resting on his shoulder. 

"This is like your dream," she mumbles, picking at her scales.

He stops caressing her to meet her empty gaze. She does not make eye contact with him, concentrating on the way his shirt folds and bends. "My dreams?"

Ifritah nods. "From your childhood. Do you remember?"

He looks away, setting down the novel he had been reading. This had been the most she had spoken in weeks. 

"I do. I am surprised you remember as well." He returns to caressing her hair, knowing the conversation would soon fade. It always did. "They were nightmares at first, though nightmares eventually turn to dreams, don't they?"

The faintest smile appears on her lips. She wants to sob, to cry, to lash out. But all she can do is shake the bars of her cage and beg her consciousness to give her leeway, give her space to grieve and mourn. Soon, she will forget this feeling and will return to being their docile trophy.

"I hope this nightmare eventually becomes a dream too."


	8. citrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we back at it again with chapters written on my phone at night on a lot of painkillers!

Ala Mhigo is a sweet drink with a bitter, lingering aftertaste. She visited often when she was in Dalmasca, as a child, before being whisked away to the frigid tundra of Garlemald. To say she was thankful for the warm weather would be a lie, for she was not only  _ thankful _ , she was ecstatic. When they had first arrived, the heat was a savoir against the oppressive cold of Garlemald. 

Then, the beautiful architecture that reminded her of home. She would run her fingers against the curves of the walls, feeling the love and care put into each column, each fresco. But it quickly became a bitter reminder of a place she could no longer return. A place that no longer existed, a fabled location meant for fairy tales. She opened her heart to this place and all it had done was rip it out - not even deigning her with death, but dragging her along by her arteries. 

Was it truly her fault for becoming so cold? Every shadow seemed to follow. Every pair of eyes stared for too long. Every whisper was about her. Every new face -  _ Gods _ , every new face was a nightmare. 

She spends her days in the menagerie, surrounded by crimson stained flowers. Some days, Zenos would join her. The two would sit beneath one of the exotic trees and spend their afternoon in silence, enjoying the company of each other’s essence. 

Sometimes, he holds open a book and reads to her. She rests her head on his bicep, fingers peeling the skin of an orange, her eyes shut. He speaks of philosophy, the art of war and the state of man. She cares little for these things. She knew one truth, that life was insufferably long. That the world was riddled with monotonous shades of grey and each setting sun was another reminder that this would continue for what felt like eternity. Yet, against that desaturated hue, there is a splash of colour. A splash of  _ life _ .

For her, it was him. For him, it was her.

She peels apart the orange, offering one to him with an open palm. He does not stop looking at his book, instead he opens his mouth and she delicately places it in there. 

It drives her mad, fills her mind with agony that he was so gentle with her yet so stubborn. That her lingering desire for death was quelled by his incessant reminder of Varis. He would stroke the flame of revenge everytime he felt it dwindle to embers. Perhaps together saw it as cruel, to keep a dying animal alive. But he understood, because he too, was a beast. 

“You have neglected your training.”

Ifritah chews on the orange idly, watching the flowers sway. 

“Ifritah.”

Her attention is brought back to reality. “Hm? Oh…” 

“Have you grown bored already?”

She chews on another piece of the orange.

“Very well, I will find you a new retainer. Perhaps something with magic?”

“What is wrong with me not learning anything, hm? Why can’t I simply be a boring wife whose only skill is peeling fruit?”

He snaps the book shut, as he plucks the rest of the orange from her hand and out of her reach. “Because I know you are more capable than that. Because you have already grown bored of the mundane. Because no wife of mine will not know how to fight. Shall I list more reasons?”

She tries to reach for the orange but falls face first in his lap instead. She groans, audibly annoyed, against the fabric of his thigh.

“Yes. I want a full list of all your reasons by tomorrow morning,” she replies, words muffled by the leather.

He pops the orange in his mouth and uses her head as a place to rest his book, opening it to the page he left off. “Your training will begin next week.”


End file.
